


dizzy

by zeraparker



Category: Motorsport RPF, WEC RPF
Genre: Blow Job, Dom/sub, First Time, Hero Worship, M/M, PWP, Sauna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 23:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: “You going to tell me, if I told you to come over here and blow me, you wouldn't do it?”





	dizzy

**Author's Note:**

> Set 2009ish
> 
> There is no excuse for this. None. I needed to hit my NaNo word goal of the day, and there was the writers advice that said 'write the most self-indulgent thing you can think of' and I did. That's it. Also I haven't really managed to get a grip on the emotional plottiness of the other fic, so that will come later this week, but to sweeten your Monday, have some porn.

The steam is hot and wet in his throat, on his skin. The hot air is ripe with it. It feels a bit like he's swimming, drowning, despite sitting still, his breath laboured as if his lungs are fighting against the air, unable to cope with the amount of water the steamer is releasing into the room. His mind, already light-headed from the thin air so high up in the mountains, the chalet the whole team is staying it high above the snow border, feels sluggish. It's not the burning hotness of one of the higher temperature saunas the Scandinavians prefer, the one that Andre only had stuck his head in for a couple seconds earlier, almost immediately drawing back when he'd smelled the biting heat of the vodka someone must have upended over the hot coal stove.

No. Andre prefers the lower temperature that still feels blistering hot compared to the icy winter outside; prefers the longer minutes he can endure at this heat, staying in the steam room until his skin is pruned like stepping out of a pool. It's finally time that he allows himself to let it all sink in, the past weeks, the months leading up to this, the many meetings and negotiation and sleepless nights in which he hadn't dared dream of what was now becoming a reality: him being part of the team, _the team_ , the one he'd always dreamt of, surrounded by legends and champions.

He bathes in it, in the slow-growing realisation that this is it, this is where he belongs; that all the hard work has paid off, that going to Japan wasn't a one way ticket into oblivion, another obscure name on another obscure list of wannabe somethings no one will remember a year from now. He did it, he impressed, and while he can already feel the starting pressure of proving himself, of confirming the trust the bosses showed in him, for now he just wants to bask in it, enjoy it. He's earned it, and fuck all if he doesn't deserve a break, if only for a couple days.

The milky glass door is pulled open, sucking some of the hot air out into the dark, a flurry of chilled coldness wafting through the octagonal room. Andre can feel his skin turn into goosebumps and opens his eyes, blinking the sweat out of them to clear his gaze.

Tom gives him a curt nod that Andre returns, sinking onto the mosaic tiles that form the sloped bench around the room a couple feet away from him, not straight across the room, a little to the side.

Andre closes his eyes again, has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek not to grin too obviously. If he'd told his younger self he'd be sharing winter camp with the greatest of his sport he'd have shown himself the bird, but now he's here, and he's keeping his eyes shut in fear of outright staring, which would be rude anyway, even more so in the intimate quarters of the steam room. He listens to the sound of his own breathing, can hear Tom the small distance away. New heat from the steamers is encroaching upon them, working hard against the cold air Tom had dragged inside, bearing down on them relentlessly.

Sweat is dripping off his nose, off his chin. He can feel it run down his chest in rivulets, along the outlines of his muscles, down his abs. He can feel it tingling against the more sensitive skin of his nipples, gather in the hollow of his collar bones, in the dip of his belly button. He can feel it in the bend of his knee, running down along the hairs on his shins, can feel it in the crease where his thigh meets his crotch, where his cock lies nestled against his thigh. His arse feels a little numb from sitting on the hard tiles for so long now, how long exactly he doesn't even know, his hands on either side of him, palms spread out on the tiles, the tips of his fingers and thumb running aimlessly along the ridges between the mosaic.

“You gonna do it this year?”

The words startle Andre out of his reverie, drag him out of contemplating the boundaries of his body. “Hm?” He opens his eyes, shifting just his gaze to the side to find Tom watching him with lazy attention.

“You gonna win it?”

Andre knows what he's talking about, of course. How could he not, when he knows it's what piqued everybody's interest in him. It's flattering, but making him nervous at the same time. Trying not to allow the older man a glimpse into the warring thoughts inside his mind, he cocks an eyebrow. “Let's wait and see what the car is like, no?” he says.

Tom shakes his head. “The car can do it. It's about you, and the other two. You think you can do it, you'll do it.”

They fall silent again, listening to the billowing steam, the gurgle of the boiling water mixed with the essential oils that flavour the mist. Andre mulls over what Tom has said in his mind, the obvious comeback about Tom's own ambitions at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't like the taste of it, runs the tip of his tongue against the inside of his teeth, flicks it across his lips when a droplet of sweat teases at the seam of them.

“Is that how you go about everything in life?” he asks, feeling Tom's gaze on him. “If you think you can do it, you'll do it. If you think you can have it, you'll have it?

Tom laughs, but it sounds almost like a bark, echoed from the tiled walls and floor, sending shivers down Andre's spine. “You gonna prove me wrong?” There's a challenge in his tone, and assuredness that takes Andre by surprise, makes him aware of the tension between them. Andre looks at him, but it's hard to meet his gaze through the dampness clinging heavily to his eyelashes, through the sweat stinging in the corners of his eyes. “You going to tell me, if I told you to come over here and blow me, you wouldn't do it?”

Andre makes a chocked up sound, the casual laughter he wants dying half way on the way to his lips. He can feel himself blush, knows he would be scarlet in the face if it wasn't for the heat already flushing his skin. For a long moment he tries to convince himself that he must have heard wrong, that some fucked up part of his mind boiled to mush from the heat he probably should have fled a couple minutes ago projected whatever weird fantasy he might or might not have had in the dead of night with his hand down his shorts or during a sleepless night in the back of some garage projected onto the come-alive legend in front of him.

Tom just watches him with a steady gaze, his face a mask Andre can't decipher, but he quirks one eyebrow, the challenge still hanging in the room between them, and shifts as if to find a more comfortable position, spreading his legs a couple inches further apart. Andre can't help himself, the movement drags his eyes down, over Tom's body sculpted by years of racing, of the forces of the cars he tames, to the thick muscles of his thighs and the length of his cock between them. He should move his eyes away, should stop staring, look back up at Tom's face and come up with a comeback, turn this strange tension into a joke, get back on steady ground. Instead he can barely breathe, a lump in his throat and the beginning of a nervous itch in his muscles, that spells out his want all too easily, must be written all over his face.

“Have you done this before?” Tom asks, curiosity knitting his forehead into a frown, the muscles around his eyes twitching when Andre gives the smallest shake of his head. No, he hasn't; sometimes he thinks he's missed out a lot of the things other kids his age did in their teens while he was always at race tracks, always aching for the next faster car, for the next bigger circuit; he is far from a virgin of course, is aware of what's going on at the afterparties, with the grid girls and models that dangle off other drivers' arms, with the fangirls that would do anything to get their hands on a driver; in the paddock, away from media and prying eyes, in hotel rooms and motorhomes and the back of garages when no one is looking, when the racers are high on adrenaline in a way that only another driver would understand; what they do to take the edge off. He always feels on the outside though, like he doesn't know the code, like whatever circles taught the others who to ask, who to look at the right way, where to meet and when, somehow never crossed his path, leaving everything shrouded in mystery and secrets and undefined want.

This, this is different though. This couldn't be any clearer, and Andre feels like the ground is tilting with the realisation that here, now he could learn how to be a part of it. So when Tom asks “You want to?” Andre finds himself nodding before he can stop himself to examine the tightly wound knot of anxiety in his stomach.

Tom leans his head back against the tiled wall behind him, considering Andre through half lidded eyes. His hair is plastered to his head from the wetness in the room, and he sticks out his tongue to lick over his lips, gather up the droplets of water there. His eyes rake up and down Andre's body languidly now, unashamedly taking him in. “You're really pretty, you know?” he asks, his voice a little deeper. “Come here and get me hard.”

Andre can't help the soft little moan that escapes his lips. He wants to stand up, walk the few feet distance, but just the thought of towering over Tom when he gets to his feet feels wrong to him. He slides off the seat, crossing the last two feet across the room on his knees. There's an appreciative little smile around Tom's mouth. He spreads his legs further, unashamed, making room for Andre to crawl in between. Even in the heat of the room, Andre can still feel the body heat exuding from Tom's skin as he settles in between his legs. He feels light-headed again, a little dizzy from moving across the room, maybe. Before nerves can get the better of him, he reaches out, wraps his hand around the still flaccid length of Tom's cock.

They're both slick with sweat and condensation. It's weird, touching someone else' cock; strange and familiar at the same time. He gives Tom a couple experimental tugs, feeling him slowly start to fill out against his palm as he starts stroking him. The angle is all wrong, and Tom's cock looks big against his hand, so close to his face. Andre knows it's only the perspective, but it sends a shiver down his spine.

“I thought we were talking about a blow job,” Tom says after a couple moments of Andre's aimless fumbling. Andre can feel the tips of his ears heat up, doesn't dare lift his head to meet Tom's eyes. He startles when he feels the weight of Tom's hand settle on his head, his fingers pushing into his wet hair, curling around the messy strands.

He allows Tom to steer him forwards, push his face towards his crotch, towards his cock. Tom reaches down with his other hand, pushes Andre's hand away to take a hold of the base of his cock that's hard by now, straining towards Andre. Andre can't help himself licking his lips instinctively, tasting the saltiness of his own sweat. Up so close he can smell Tom, the muskiness of his skin, his sweat, can see a clear drop of fluid bead at the tip of his dick. He is uncut, the foreskin pulling back from the tip of his dick to reveal the crown on every lazy downstroke of his hand. Tom takes his dick, rubs it against Andre's cheek, his clean shaven skin soft from the wet heat of the steam room. Andre closes his eyes, taking in the feel of him against his skin.

“Careful with your teeth,” Tom says when he pulls back, and Andre swallows heavily, insecurity flooding him again suddenly, his nerves feeling prickly. The tip of Tom's dick nudges against his lips and startled, Andre opens his mouth, keeps his eyes shut tight as he concentrates, opens his mouth wider against the unexpected girth of it. It feels weird on his tongue, in his mouth, the heat and weight of it, the taste he senses the first time Tom pulls his head back, smearing precome across his tongue as he carefully makes Andre bob his head back and forth. Taking him into his mouth makes it hard to breathe, even harder the further he pushes in, and Andre has no illusions that he could take him all on the first try, can feel himself choke and splutter embarrassedly when Tom pulls back, gives him a moment to catch his back.

Andre opens his eyes then, taking a deep breath, swallowing against the weird feeling in his throat as he glances up. He doesn't know what he's looking for, approval maybe, any hint of what Tom thinks about this, but all he sees is the endless darkness in Tom's eyes and it sends a shiver down his spine.

“Keep going,” Tom says, the tiniest nudge against the back of his skull, and Andre follows, bowing his head to take him back into his mouth, giving the tip of Tom's dick an experimental suck when he's halfway on his tongue. The sudden burst of precome startles him, the taste more intense as more of the fluid coats his tongue, slides down the back of his throat when he reflexively swallows, the suction urging the smallest grunt from Tom above him.

Tom's fingers dig into his hair, pressure points all over his skull. “Relax,” he says, the hint of amusement swinging in his voice. “You're not a natural at this,” he adds without much inflection, and Andre doesn't know if he's just stating facts or saying it as a reprimand, but there's shame bubbling up inside him, coupled with the familiar ambition that's shaped every part of his life, fuelled every step of his career, and he hollows his cheeks again, sucking on Tom anew, this time knowing what to expect, and taking pride in the renewed noise he can force out of Tom.

It's more a struggle between them than anything else. Andre wants to relax more into it, allow Tom to guide him, but he soon realises that he'll need some serious practice if he wants to achieve the same techniques some of his girl friends had shown him, coupled with a renewed respect for what they'd done for him. He has to pull back more than once to cough, taking a wheezing breath, and wonders if it's feeling good for Tom at all, but Tom's dick is leaking a steady spill of precome from the tip and his hand on Andre's head is unwavering, dragging him back down again and again.

His knees are hurting from kneeling on the hard tiled floor for so long, his own dick heavy and flushed between his legs. He wants to reach down and touch himself, but he needs all the concentration he can muster on the unfamiliar task of giving Tom pleasure, doesn't dare distract himself. He wants to prove to the older man that he can do this, that he is willing if not good, taking in the approval of every renewed push of Tom's hand against his head, his cock into his mouth. Tom is still holding the base of his own dick, the roughness of his fingers meeting Andre's lips every so often, and he wonders what it would feel like to take all of him into his mouth, be pushed down far enough to bury his nose in the wet hair at the base of his dick; if he'd be able to take any breath at all or be entirely at Tom's mercy. He's feeling dizzy and aroused, his whole body aching with it.

Tom sighs heavily, his hand tightening its grip in Andre's hair. He drags his head back so that just the tip of his dick is still between his lips and Andre sucks on it, flicks his tongue against the sensitive head. The knuckles of Tom's hand bruise his lips as he's jerking himself off more steadily now. He cants his hips, pulling Andre clear off his dick. Andre takes a couple harsh breaths. His jaw is aching, his lips feel swollen and sore. Tom's taste is lingering in his mouth, thick and _there_ , and he swallows it all down even as Tom pushes his head deeper, along the length of his cock, down to his balls. Andre feels weak, light-headed from the heat and lack of oxygen. His hands have found their way down Tom's legs, to his ankles, holding onto them as he's directed down.

“Lick them,” Tom says and Andre obeys, mouthing at his balls, licking at them, his mouth constantly moving where Tom steers him. His lips are slack, open, he knows he's smearing himself and Tom with saliva, the residue of Tom's come, everything, but he doesn't care as long as this doesn't stop. It's a thrill like that split second at the end of the strait when he pushes himself that tiny bit longer before he hits the brake, the moment always feeling endless until they bite, slow the car with a gut wrenching tug. It's the same kind of tug he feels now, his insides liquid with want and desire and recklessness as he feels Tom's hand speed up on his cock.

“You're such a good boy, so willing, so filthy,” Tom murmurs, his voice hitching, and Andre can feel the heat radiating off him against his face, the way his muscles tighten, the tight draw of his balls. Tom's hand falls down to his neck, thumbs digging into the soft flesh beneath his jaw bone and Andre whines in sudden pain as he's pushed up and back, his eyes snapping open and then he flinches away, tries to at least, when the first spurts of come hit his cheek, his jaw, across his mouth, dripping down on his chest.

“Taste it,” Tom demands and Andre does, would have done so anyway, his tongue licking across his lips to gather up the salty taste of him. Tom leans forwards, his thumb still digging uncomfortably into the soft flesh beneath Andre's jaw. “How about it, next time I come into your mouth, and you're gonna swallow it all?” he says, his face close to Andre's head, breath ghosting over his ear hotly, making him shiver and moan in return. “I'll make you gag on it.”

“Please,” Andre stutters, his voice hoarse, throat feeling raw and abused. Just the thought that he pleased Tom enough with his fumbling efforts to want a repeat performance makes his head swim with gratitude. He is flushed, weak from the praise and the clogged up arousal making his nerves sing. “Please.” He doesn't quite know what he's asking for, what is even on the table at this point.

Tom hums in approval, his hand going back to the back of Andre's neck. His touch isn't quite tender, but less stinging than the press of his thumb a moment ago, a bruise sure to be forming in the throbbing skin beneath his jaw now the pressure is released from it. Tom's hand guides him forwards until his face is pressed to the skin of Tom's lower stomach, hands cradling his head, and Andre allows himself to be held like this, breathing harshly through his mouth, his lips only inches from the base of Tom's cock, sinking into the feeling of Tom around him, the strong legs on either side of him, the rise and fall of his stomach from his still harsh breathing, the sure touch of his hands in his hair and at his neck, at the top of his shoulders.

“Touch yourself,” Tom says, but the words don't quite connect with Andre's brain, his mind too far away to coordinate his limbs. Tom lifts one of his feet, Andre's hand still resting around his ankle and lifts it. Andre almost jumps at the pressure of Tom's foot and his own hand awkwardly wrapped around it pushed against his straining cock. He whines, his hand slipping off Tom's ankle, but Tom keeps rubbing the back of his foot against Andre's cock, a hard, firm pressure, and Andre can feel his hips snap forwards, buck into the pressure, the friction it provides eagerly. He feels like he's never been so hard in his life, the noises he makes muffled against Tom's skin will mortify him later when he thinks back, replaying the whole encounter in his head with his hand wrapped around his cock in the solitude of his hotel room, but in the moment he can't stop himself from surging forwards greedily, rubbing himself off against Tom's foot, against Tom's shin.

“So good for me, so eager,” Tom murmurs, fingers carding through Andre's hair. “Come on, come for me, show me how desperate you are.”

And Andre does, shudders through it as his hips thrust forward, whining as his spunk is dragged from his cock by the insistent rubbing of Tom's foot. He jerks against him, his body wrecked with shivers as he lets himself go, feeling overheated and suddenly chilled at the same time. The room is spinning gently around him and he digs his fingers into Tom's thigh, into his shin, trying to ground himself as his dick paints the tiles with his release.

Tom's hands cup his face, lifting his head, but Andre doesn't open his eyes, not ready to face the scrutiny he can feel in Tom's gaze. He flinches again when he feels the broad swipe of a tongue across his cheek, up from his jaw over the corner of his mouth to the prominent arc of his cheek bone. He feels that he's being pushed backwards and he goes with it, following until he's lowered back onto the hard, hot tiles of the mosaic floor. His breathing sounds harsh echoing from the tiled walls.

Tom's ankle is still between his legs, nudged up against his crotch. Andre opens his eyes a fraction, feels the sting in them from sweat and come. The room looks blurry, Tom's tall frame towering above how he's sprawled out, taking up almost the entire floor in the centre of the cramped room.

“You should wash that off before someone sees,” Tom says, a hint of amusement in his voice that Andre can't really place, that makes his stomach feel queasy. The advice seems wrongly placed when he thinks that at least half of the evidence of their sex must be smeared onto Tom's skin. “And you shouldn't stay in here for too long, it's going to fuck with your head.” Andre makes an indistinguishable noise. The room is still spinning around him.

Tom steps away then, taking the pressure of his leg, the touch that still grounded Andre, away with him. Three, four steps, and Andre can feel the gust of icy air as the glass door is pushed open. It makes him shiver, his crawling skin unable to cope with the sensation on top of it all.

 


End file.
